


Pretty Boy

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Humor, Parrot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:59:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes & Watson agree to look after Mrs. Hudson's Percy for one week.  Will all four emerge unscathed from the experience?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Boy

I hastened up the stairs towards the sitting-room of 221B Baker Street, with a smile upon my face and some keen news to impart to my friend, Sherlock Holmes. It was July. The weather these past two weeks had been more than unusually humid, therefore it was no surprise to discover my companion sat by the open window with his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, fanning himself with that morning's edition of The Times. He swung around to me in distraction as I entered the room.

“Watson!” said he, fanning ever the more madly, “I am hot and wet and sticky, and it is really too bad.”

“It is summertime, Holmes,” I replied brightly. “And the weather is glorious and is here to be enjoyed. But this room is so stuffy. You should be outside in the park where there is a cooler breeze, if that is what you really want.”

“What I _want_ ,” said Holmes, “is a large carafe of iced lemonade, an ice cream, and dear Mrs. Hudson standing a little to my right, fanning me enthusiastically with an oversized palm leaf.”

I chuckled at him. “Ah, speaking of Mrs. Hudson --” I began – but it seemed to me that my friend was rather more enjoying his hot-flushed rant than the prospect of listening to my wittering.

“Do we even _have_ any lemons? Or ice? Or anything at all that is remotely cooler than a psychotic fire coal?”

“I do not know,” I admitted. “What we most certainly do _not_ have is Mrs. Hudson with an oversized palm leaf. Because, as you must surely remember, Holmes, she will very soon be taking leave of us and heading out to Brighton for her summer holiday.”

Holmes stared at me in horror. “But –!” he said. 

“Mrs. Turner will be popping in to cook for us and seeing to our essential needs,” I added. “Don't pout, old fellow, it is only for a week.”

Holmes threw himself away from the window sill and catapulted his lean frame onto the sofa, where he sprawled upon his back, panting and fanning in equal desperation.

“Mrs. Turner cannot cook,” said he, eventually. “Everything she brings up to us is either burnt to a cinder or in a cold, unidentifiable rigor mortis.”

“ _Speaking of Mrs. Hudson_ ,” I repeated, this time rather more firmly so that my friend might perhaps pay some small fraction of attention, “speaking of Mrs. Hudson, she has made a request of us and I have agreed on our behalf.” I bit my lip. I had agreed to the request in surprise and flattered haste, I must confess, but all the same felt it an honour to be so trusted.

Holmes eyed me. “What request?” he enquired. “What behalf? What?”

“Percy will have no-one to look after him,” I said calmly. “And so I have said that we should be happy to take care of him this week.”

“Percy?” Holmes's brow furrowed. “Mrs. Hudson's... grandson?”

“No.”

“Nephew?”

“No.”

“Niece?”

“ _No_ , Holmes, for goodness sake. Percy is Mrs. Hudson's African Grey.”

“Her African Grey what?”

I clapped my hand to my hot and suffering forehead. “ _Parrot_. Her African Grey _parrot_...”

Holmes sat up straight upon the sofa. I ascertained the situation to be a serious one, for he had ceased his fanning and was regarding me with eyes of sharp grey steel. If his hair had not been crafted as it was into tiny hedgehog spikes from his agitated recumbence, then I might have found myself alarmed. As it was, I could not help but smile fondly at him. This reaction served only to aggravate the cold intensity of the glare.

“For how long has Mrs. Hudson owned a parrot?” he demanded, smoothing down his wayward locks.

“A little over six months,” I replied. “You were informed of the fact when the bird first arrived, Holmes. How could you forget? I am surprised that you have not heard it chattering away from the parlour.”

“That was the parrot?” he asked, in all sincerity. “I thought that it was Mrs. Hudson embarking upon the first stages of dementia.”

I rolled my eyes. They remained rolled upwards in supplication, in the faint hope of some heavenly rescue from my peculiar friend. At least he had not refused me outright. At the very least, he appeared more concerned with the fact of his forgetfulness rather than the reality of a large parrot with an even larger cage that would soon be residing within our overheated sitting-room.

“Thank you,” I said, after a long pause. “Thank you for agreeing to look after Percy with me, Holmes.”

“Oh no,” said he. “I shall be leaving that to you, Watson. I have no desire to be pecked to shreds or clawed into ribbons. And if it smells, or makes too much of a row, or is otherwise objectionable, then Mrs. Turner can jolly well take over the care of it. Why is she not doing it anyway? Is there something wrong with Porky?”

“ _Percy_ ,” I corrected him gently. “Not Porky. And there is nothing wrong with him. Mrs. Hudson informs me that Mrs. Turner regrettably possesses a terrier with a fierce aversion to birds, so he cannot stay at her home. And he requires human company, and Mrs. Turner will not be here for such long periods as to give him that.”

Holmes huffed. “Very well, then,” he said. “I do not have the energy to put up an argument. Just remember what I said, Watson. Your memory is appalling.”

I said nothing. I smiled, and turned my thoughts to parrots and to Percy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Early on the Monday morning, I gathered all of my strength to carry the considerable cage and its occupant from our landlady's parlour upstairs to the sitting-room. Mrs. Hudson fluttered behind me, all motherly anxiety. She thrust a paper package into my hands as I set the stand down in the corner.

“Here are a few treats for Percy, Doctor,” said she. “Some nuts and dry biscuits and seeds. Do please be sure to obtain a quantity of fresh chopped vegetables and fruits from Mrs. Turner every morning. And see to it that he has fresh water every day. And talk to him. But do not raise your voice to him, because he does not care for shouting. And--”

There was a loud snort from the sofa. Holmes peered around the edge of it at us.

“Are you entirely serious?” he asked. “Dear me. I am beginning to think that this bird may be getting preferential treatment to us, Watson, what do you think, eh?”

Mrs. Hudson wagged her finger.

“Now, Mr. Holmes,” said she, “don't be such a trouble from the start. All I am asking is that you be kind to Percy, for he is a sweet and friendly bird.” She adjusted her scarf. “I must be off now, or I shall miss my train. I shall see you all in a week's time. Goodbye Doctor, goodbye Mr. Holmes, goodbye my Percy.”

She gently touched the cage where the great grey bird sat perched within, its curious eyes looking round and about at the strange new room. Then our landlady was gone, with a final scurry down the hall and a rattle of the latch. 

Holmes and I looked at each other. We looked at the parrot.

“What time will lunch be?” Holmes asked. “What happens if I want tea and cake and there is no Mrs. Turner to bring me any?”

“I imagine that we shall have to fend for certain things ourselves,” I said. “Mrs. Turner will only provide for our three main meals, in addition to carrying out a little light housework in the mornings.”

He frowned, resolving then to ignore me and to return to the reading of his paper, affecting no interest whatsoever in our temporary guest. I moved to the front of the cage and leaned over to peer in at the beautiful bird.

“Hello,” I said, softly.

“Hello,” said Holmes. “What now?”

“I am talking to Percy,” I said patiently. Then, back to the cage: “What a handsome fellow. Are you hungry?” I rattled the wire clips of the food bowl within. The parrot eyed me severely as if I should not be doing such a thing at all with its breakfast.

“He has your attitude, Holmes,” I said with a chuckle. “The two of you should get along very well.”

My friend sighed. The newspaper he was holding snapped in irritation.

The bird cage itself was quite a magnificent one: a spacious thick wire pillar box, with several natural wood perches and a large hatch at the front through which to pass food bowls and treats. It rested upon its own wooden stand at approximately shoulder height. I marvelled at how I had managed to manoeuvre the entire thing up the stairs without acquiring a double hernia. Judging by Percy's growth and plumage, I estimated him to be at least one year of age. I admired the calm dignity with which he was adapting to his new home, for he did not seem remotely flustered by the disturbance. His sleek head was now preening beneath his left wing; he balanced upon one leg to inspect a foot; he ferreted behind him at his spectacular red tail.

“I declare the thing has fleas,” said Holmes, observing all of this in some dismay.

“No, he does not,” I replied, in defence of the poor bird. “He is preening, Holmes. It is what birds must do to keep themselves tidy and clean. Good gracious, did you never actually read your copy of _British Birds?_ ”

“Yes,” said he, “and it did not mention anything of them needing to continually root about as if they had the most frightful itch.” He winced at the bird. “Fleas, Watson.”

“No fleas,” I repeated, firmly. I unwrapped the paper package that our landlady had entrusted to my care, and laid out the good things within. There were nuts and raisins, a small carton of unsalted biscuits and a box of sunflower seeds. I smiled warmly at how well looked after young Percy was. His bowl was already filled with the day's ration; I placed the package to one side until the morrow.

“I am going out for a little while,” I informed my friend. “It is too hot to stay indoors, although you are welcome to remain here and bake if you prefer. I shall bring you back an ice cream.”

My walk was delightful, carrying with it a refreshing breeze despite the blaze of the sun. I sat for a little while on a park bench shaded by trees. I strolled by small groups of happy children playing with their friends, and exchanged pleasantries with the old park-keeper standing watchful with his spike and sack. By good fortune I discovered an ice cream vendor wheeling his cart quite close to home, and purchased two vanilla cones to take back with me.

Holmes was standing by the bird cage as I buffeted sideways into the room, attempting to keep the cones from dripping their contents onto the rug. He spun around guiltily, moved away to one side.

“What were you doing?” I asked. “Here, I have brought you a cone.”

He accepted it. “Thank you.” He licked at it tentatively. “It is very hot in here.”

“Yes, I know.” I strode to the bay and opened the windows a little wider. “Were you talking to Percy?”

“A little,” he replied. “But he didn't talk back. He isn't much fun, Watson.”

“He has only been with us a couple of hours, Holmes,” I said, “give him a while longer to settle in.”

I moved over to inspect the cage. I glanced down in muted horror at the side table where I had placed the paper bundle. It had been reopened and was in disarray.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “Where are the raisins?”

My friend continued to lick busily at his ice cream.

“There were no raisins,” he replied.

“Oh yes, there were,” I said, frowning at him. “Please reassure me that you did not steal Percy's raisins, Holmes. I mean, really.”

He grimaced; did silent battle with his conscience. 

“I needed a nibble,” he said, eventually. “And I had no Mrs. Hudson to bring me a bun or a sandwich or a --”

I threw my hands into the air.

“You are dreadful,” I told him. “As soon as you have finished your ice cream you are going straight out to buy a new package of raisins. Don't you dare look at me like that, Holmes, just don't you dare. I am locking up the rest of this parcel, otherwise you'll be at the sunflower seeds next.”

“No I won't,” said he. “They're too hard to crack.”

Holmes did purchase some replacement raisins, and I duly forgave him. The three of us spent the remainder of the week in an amiable companionship. My friend overcame his initial distrust of the bird, and I often found him standing by the cage regaling it with this and that news of the day, for such was his eccentricity. I found myself called out of town for several days, but Holmes promised very faithfully that he would not shirk his duty to the parrot. By the time that I returned upon the Sunday, Mrs. Hudson was back with us also, just. We bid a fond farewell to our feathered friend. I returned the heavy cage back down the stairs and to the parlour.

“I think, after all, that you shall miss our little Percy,” I said to Holmes as we sat back down to our pipes.

Holmes nodded thoughtfully.

“I confess that I did become quite attached while you were gone,” said he. “But he is only a few steps away and I can visit him whenever I like.”

Our landlady knocked upon our sitting-room door that very evening. Her expression was one of vexed displeasure. She stepped into the room with both hands upon her hips.

“Whatever is the matter, Mrs. Hudson?” I enquired. 

“You are the matter. Mr. Holmes is the matter,” said she. “Whoever it is that has been teaching my Percy all of those phrases.”

“What phrases?” I asked, baffled.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. She drew a small notebook from her pocket and, opening it to the first page, began to read:

“ _Watson is a sausagehead.... My God, I'm Gorgeous... Inspector Lestrade smells of old turnips... I'm just a parrot who can't say No._ ”

The dear lady shut her notebook with a snap.

“I am very unhappy about this, Doctor Watson,” she said.

“I cannot apologise enough,” I said, contrite. “My goodness, your Percy is a fast learner, is he not?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hudson. “He is.” 

And she turned upon her heel and left the room, amidst a flurry of cross muttering.

“Holmes!” I called out, quite loudly, now rather more frustrated with my friend than I had been in some considerable time: “Where are you, Holmes? Holmes! Damnit, Holmes!”


End file.
